Death and His Wife
by MaleficentMo
Summary: The story of Death, however he may be portrayed in any culture, and his beloved wife. How they met. Rated T because she had to die so she can meet him, and death is unpleasant. I tried to keep it low on the details.


She was one of the saddest girls he had ever seen. She was pale, slender, with orange-red hair that curled and blew dramatically in the wind. The sort of girl men wrote novels about.

She had an air of melancholy, but she had earned it- she had a hard life.

And she was young. Oh, so young, when he looked at her he felt the sadness, too. Probably around sixteen.

Her dress fit the style of the time, but was simple and unadorned. Plain white, a bodice that lay low on her breasts and gathered immediately under them, then fell straight down to the ground. It suited her, very much so.

He didn't really understand why he watched her. But he didn't mind. He was old- so, so old, and he understood by now that he did not have to understand the whys of everything.

Her life was hard, harder than most. Her father beat her, her elder brothers ignored her, and her younger brothers depended on her absolutely, having no mother to look to. She was allowed no friends, and was required to keep the house tidy, to cook for the family, to host when there was company, and above all, to never miss a sermon at church.

Things got worse when the sickness came about, causing gaunt, pale faces with dark, sunken eyes peering out through horrible red splotches. She cared for everyone while they were sick, only stopping to fall ill herself once everyone else was either well or dead. No-one cared for her through her nights of fever, no-one but the youngest of the children, and it was for their sake, for the sake of their worried faces, for the sake of their sad and empty futures that she held in her lethal coughs and hid her sickness behind pathetic smiles. He thought the sickness would take her, but was soon chastised with the knowledge that she was made of stronger stuff than that.

He grew more curious when he started noticing some of the young men looking at her. None looked long, for they knew her family. And if they didn't, they found out quickly, in a manner they would not be likely to ever fully recover from. There was one young man who seemed to really make an impact on her, he saw as they met in secret, in darkness, for only the shortest moments lest they be discovered. And there he saw her smile. Not often, but sincerely, and he wished for more.

Within a few months, however, they were discovered, and the young man dispatched permanently, and he took the young man in. The family would not risk the loss of the one who was their servant.

He saw her tears, when she was alone, when everyone else was asleep, she wept silently. He had never seen anyone weep in such complete silence before. She would open her mouth wide and scream out her pain, but would allow no sound to escape, only a rush of air followed by the gritting of teeth. He saw her grasp her own arms so tightly that her fingers turned white, her skin blemished with red and purple, bruised from the pressure, but they were only lost among the other bruises and scars.

She was an empty shell, and it was only a matter of time before the shell broke.

It happened before the sun rose. She was always up and working before dawn, so it was no hardship for her to sneak out of the house while everyone else still slept. She lived in a house at the edge of the white cliffs, against the backdrop of the sea. He had always had a fondness for the sea, and resided there often. She did not leap and throw herself from the cliffs, but rather walked down the steep slope to the spot where she could climb down the rest of the way, until her bare feet landed on the thin strip of beach. She loosened her dress, and as it fell to her feet, stepped out of it and continued walking while undoing her stays, slipping out of her chemise, and waded completely bare into the bitterly cold ocean. She did not flinch, did not even seem to notice as the salt water crashed against her. She waded further and further until she was completely underwater, and then began to swim. She did not know how, really, but she did well enough, making her way further and further from the shore until she had no more energy left in her. And then she let go, she closed her eyes, relaxed her aching and tired body, so worn already at sixteen, and she breathed her last.

As the last trace of life slipped from her nostrils, he went to her. He gathered her to him and sank, down and down and down until there was only blackness, blackness and a silence so complete that none living could hear it and survive. And still he kept going, moving faster than any force on earth, and yet the movement seemed so muted, so buffered and peaceful as to feel as though they were floating weightlessly.

When he stopped, they were somewhere else, somewhere man has given many names, but none that stick; somewhere no man can really understand. They were in Death.

He held her, clasped to him like a treasure, as he moved about in this place that was his home. He drifted at the speed of light to a cove, a small, special place, where he laid her down on a bed made just for her. She did not move in all this, eyes closed and body still in death, until he lightly ran his fingers across her forehead, along her hairline, and breathed into her. His breath was not breath, but travelled in a way much like it, and entered her body softly, filling her with himself. He sat silently by her side on the bed and watched as his magic filled her. It filled her sunken cheeks, expanded her collapsed lungs, pulled colour into her sallow skin, and opened her eyes.

She looked at him with eyes he knew he had never seen the likes of. They were pale, gunmetal, sky blue, almost seeming to be without pigment, and yet the most vibrant things he had seen in many centuries.

She did not ask him if she was dead, for she knew she was, but she asked who he was, for that she did not know.

He smiled gravely at her, a small movement of the face rather than the mouth.

"I do not know what you call me," he replied, in an ancient language that was rather all languages in one. "I am the Lord of this land." And she understood. She cast her eyes down respectfully, aware at least to a degree of the power that was before her.

"My Lord," she said. He smiled again, the same as before.

"And what shall I call you?" He had wondered since he had first seen her.

"I am called Eulalie, M'Lord," she answered softly, still not raising her eyes.

"Eulalie," he tested the way the word fit on his mouth, and he enjoyed it, it was a rolling sound, musical. "Sweet speaker."

A small smile touched lightly at one corner of her lips, and then was gone. "Aye, M'Lord. My Ma chose it. Said my cries sounded like a bird's song on the day of my birth."

He continued to look at her, studying, memorising, analysing. "They did," he said simply.

Eulalie felt fear run through her at the power of the Lord before her, and stayed frozen in place, wondering what he wanted with the likes of her, but never daring to think to ask. He would tell her if he so chose. The Lord understood this, and spoke.

"You brought yourself to me." It was not a question, but still required a response.

"Aye, Lord."

"Do you wish to go back?" At his words, she was chilled beyond the bone and into her soul. She knew he could send her back with the flick of a hand if he so chose. Beyond anything she could not bear that. She could not let him do so.

"My Lord!" She finally lifted her eyes to his, desperation wiping away all else. "Lord, I'll serve ye for eternity as yer footstool, I'd be honoured to do whatever task ye may wish, I shall obey yer every whim, Lord! Please! Do anythin' to me, only do not send me back!"

He held her gaze and read her feeling in her eyes, and nodded.

"Very well."

Her eyes filled but she did not weep, merely lowered her gaze again, reverently respectful, and whispered "thank ye, Lord. Thank ye."

He nodded again, and finally moved, lifting his hand to her. She did not move, did not flinch, for she dared not. She was still as stone, waiting for his decree. But he only gently touched her face, lifting it from below the chin so that he could look into it. She kept her eyes lowered, not daring to presume what he might wish.

"Look at me, Eulalie." Slowly, she lifted her eyes until they reached his, and she looked at him with respect, but with a lack of apprehension that surprised him. She feared him, but she was not afraid of him. Her eyes were clear like windows, showing herself in them openly. They had always been so. He smiled in thanks and said, "You shall call me Cerys." She nodded, but kept looking into his eyes. That satisfied him. "You will live here with me. If I have need of a service, you will work for me, if I have need of company, you will sit with me."

"Aye, Lord," she replied, then gasped as she realised her error, and corrected herself. "Aye, Cerys." He smiled again. He enjoyed hearing her speak that name, her voice carried the twill of Irish roots, and the softness of respect.

"You will not be afraid of me. If you do as I say, you will have no reason to fear. Do you understand?"

"Aye, Cerys." This time his name was different, said on an exhale, with a hint of relief. He liked that even better.

"Very good. This is your new home. You may go where you wish when you wish, as long as you do not leave. It is safe for you here, but away from my home you will be in danger."

She nodded her understanding, and he stood. "You may explore as you like, but if I call you, you shall come."

"Aye, Cerys."

"You please me, child. Now you may rest. You will have no need for sustenance nor sleep, but you may take your time to adjust to your new home." With that, he left her alone. Eulalie let out a breath after he was gone, and sat for a while, absorbed in her thoughts. There was no time in the land she had entered, so she knew not how long she sat, but after a long time she rose, and moved about the area. She found that she no longer walked, only seemed to glide to whatever place she wished to be. It was surprisingly easy to adjust to. The ground beneath her feet she knew was not ground. A black sort of sand covered the floor, but it appeared harsh, sharp and splintered, but so small that she wondered at her ability to see the shards. She slowly moved further, exploring the area she was to call home, but never venturing so far that she could not see her bed. The world around her was entirely black, the sort of darkness that ate light and was stronger for it, and she did not trust herself in it. She knew she would never find her way back, and if her Lord was to call for her, she would be unable to come.

She slowly adjusted to the world around her, everything so different from what she knew but somehow so seamlessly a part of this land that it did not occur to her to question, or even notice it. The smell of the land was not one she could name, but was one that anyone would know was not of the world she had come from. The atmosphere around her seemed to be as a liquid, but was not damp and did not drag against her as she moved. Everything she saw in such sharp detail, and she soon realised that it was not only her eyes- the things in this world were much more complex than in the one she left behind. She revelled and feared and experienced the world, and when she heard her name, she went to her Lord. She did not question how to go to him, she simply knew the path to take in the inky, hungry darkness.

When she came upon her Lord, he was on his throne, a mighty piece made of materials foreign to her, but beautiful. No one, upon seeing such a throne, could doubt the power and rightful rulership of it's owner. She knelt at his feet, but he did not want that, and reached out to her again. Eulalie could not imagine seeing him reach for her and not being filled with awe. He took her hand in his, and raised her up.

"You will not bow at my feet, child. Sit at my side with your head lifted."

"Yes, Cerys."

"Tell me, child. Do you like your new home? Do you want for anything?" Her eyes reflected her surprise.

"No indeed, M'Lord. This land is one full of amazin' things. I could not imagine anythin' to desire to have." He seemed pleased with her answer, and Eulalie thrilled at having pleased him.

"Have you any questions? Is there aught you wish to know?"

Eulalie was timid, but curious, and possessed a soul that ached for knowledge. And given such an opportunity, she could not pass it by. "Aye, Cerys. I do." He was surprised at this, thinking she would be too frightened, but was not unhappy to be proved wrong.

"Th' air I move in, 'tis not air, 'tis not water, 'tis not earth. I do wonder what it is. Th' ground I do not step upon is sharp and crystallised, but infinitesimal. 'Tis not only my sight, I think, but I wonder if this world does not exist in the same place as the world I come from, for there is not such a depth to that place."

Cerys looked at the girl in wonder. Had she always been so wise? To immediately understand that which she should not be able to, to immediately reach conclusions that philosophers could not comprehend in their whole lifetimes, this uneducated girl had an understanding he marvelled at. He was glad to answer her questions, and they sat for a while, in this timeless place, and he spoke to her of his home. He told her of the basis it stood upon, the laws it worked upon, and the beings who dwelt there. He saw her desire to learn, and so took her beyond her little cove, and showed her as he taught, demonstrating with his mighty powers the wonders of the place he called home. And he asked about hers. He had seen her home, had known it for eons, but he wished to know it from her eyes. How did the sand feel against her human skin, what was the sensation of juice dripping down her chin after reaping the fruit of a hard years' work in the hot sun. He in his ancient knowledge got to experience things for the first time through her, and he revelled in it. Slowly, Eulalie began to open to him, never breaking the badge of respect, but more easily sharing with him the experiences of her life and the sensations of the world she had lived in for such a short time. In what seemed to be no time at all, in such a place without time, she had been there with him for as long as she has been in the other world before. And slowly, she began to offer small bits of herself with prompting, with urging from him, merely to share and watch as he listened to her. She found she enjoyed having someone to listen to her, and the fact that it was him was more than she could ever ask for.

Cerys found himself wanting to show her the pieces of his work he treasured, wanting to share with her the beauty that was to be found in his home. And, though he be older than time itself, he began to feel a sensation that he had not felt in so long that he had forgotten the sensation altogether. Cerys began to feel restless.

Cerys had never felt confined in his home. He had been content for so long, at peace with what was his. But now, as he moved about his home with her, for these days they rarely left each other's sides, he began thinking of other things he wanted to show her. He wanted to show her the scales he had used when he was younger, for The Weighing Of The Heart; the joy he brought with the fertile flooding of the Nile; his beautiful temple in Srivanchiyam; the pilgrimage of his people to Bull Rock; the seas he had searched with the Tenkei; his realm in Niflheim- his history was vast, and he wanted to share it with her. More than anything, he want to have her be a part of it. Of him.

Eulalie absorbed everything he taught her. She longed for knowledge, and she loved to learn. But more than anything, she loved being taught by Cerys. She stayed with him, and listened while he spoke. The things he said were unfathomable, and he spoke of them with a casual sort of familiarity that only caused her respect to grow. He was ancient, and yet somehow, never condescending, never speaking to her as anything but one being to another. He told her of himself, and she longed for his anecdotes, to walk in the field of memories with him, and experience it for herself, to watch him work in her mind's eye, always strong and constant, a steady figure behind every being, watching over them until he would guide them to their Final Place. He understood the vital nature of his work, and never for a moment would shirk his duties, never even consider working half-heartedly. Every single life and every single death, was the most important thing for that single being. And he would never treat it with less respect than such a significant thing called for. Each end he assisted, he treated as if it were the only one, and she learned of him that he was constant, and ready, and never resented his responsibility. And she admired him for it.

As they ventured to new places, to different times, and strange cultures, they slowly began to learn of each other, and they began to love each other. And the more they learned, the more they loved, for they had discovered long ago that they were the other's perfect half, opposites, not equals, but rather so unequal, so incomparable, that they became the same. Many times and many places had many different names for it, but Cerys was fond of saying that they evened each other's scales, and Eulalie knew it to be true.

And so they continued their existence, and continued their exploration together, and as Eulalie learned of the different times and eras she visited, she learned more of herself. She was no longer the Eulalie who lived in a hovel on a cliff, she was new, something else, something that had never existed before, and yet... somehow, she was a thing that had always existed, and merely needed to be completed. She travelled with her Lord Cerys, and learned that the stories she heard when she was growing up were, in the end, stories of herself. Some cultures called her Isis; some Persephone; some Anput; some Mictecacihuatl; some Prosperpina- but in all the stories of her, she was well-loved by her Lord, and loved him in return. It brought her a strange sense of satisfaction to know that their love was one known the world over, in every time throughout the history of the world.

The stories changed, the details, the names, but none of them really mattered, just as none of the different stories and names changed who her husband was. Whatever he was called, to her he was always simply Cerys, "love." He loved his people and he loved her. He gave love and inspired love. And through him, she came to learn love, as well.


End file.
